


Invocation

by clevebereave



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Language, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3583572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clevebereave/pseuds/clevebereave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrew would give anything up for notoriety. Luckily Fletcher's there to test those limits. It leaves Andrew wondering how much Sean Casey must have given up before he couldn't take it anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Your control is my privilege to give. I'm just taking back what's mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of what's either going to be three or five parts. I'm really not too sure how I feel about the last two parts, so we'll see. Give me some time.
> 
> I'll tag appropriately it as I go.

There was a time when Andrew would've said Buddy Rich was the most influential name in his life. That honor switched hands to Terence Fletcher with startling ease after the show at Carnegie Hall. Another name wasn't too far off, however. He'd only heard it a handful of times, but the name “Sean Casey” represented a lot more than the man who once bore the name.

“Sean Casey” meant death. It hung over his head at every inkling of self doubt. He was lucky to have his own name counter that feeling. Every “Andrew Neiman” he heard reeled him back into the will needed to continue surviving. He surpassed the man Sean Casey, but the phrase remained a brutal reminder of what one had to put them self through in order to achieve greatness.

It was easy for a while. Fletcher touted Andrew around like a prized show dog. They played the same sets around the city in the weeks that came and the way Fletcher grinned at the end of every show spread like a disease. But then they started with the new sets and new charts, having Fletcher lean up against Andrew's wall while he banged away on the drums and hammered out imperfections. The matter of who held the hammer was debatable.

After a couple of bars, Fletcher raised his arm and balled his hand into a fist. His mouth stretched into a grimace. “You gotta be fucking kidding me, Andrew.” After a dramatic sigh he leaned down and stared Andrew square in the eye before continuing on his tirade.

If anything, it was a reprieve. In the time it took Fletcher to scold him, he could rub the sweat off his hands and out of his eyes. He was given precious moments to let the feeling travel back into his hands while he half-listened to the abuse. 

This wasn't so easy. The more difficult things became, the more the words “Sean Casey” kept crawling up in the back of his mind like a creeping phobia or a misplaced sense of guilt.

“You better not be jerking off instead of practicing drums. If I see a brace on your wrist because you decided you're better off wasting my time on masturbating, I will fucking castrate you myself.” When Andrew wasn't responding he pulled one of the sticks right out of the young man's hands and slapped him hard on the shoulder with the broader part of the wood. “Tell me you haven't been jerking off instead of drumming, Neiman.”

Andrew shook his head with a little more intensity than required just to get the sweat out of his bangs. “I haven't been jerking off instead of drumming.” He allowed himself to hunch a bit, to take in breath while Fletcher stared him down trying to catch him in a lie. Fletcher finally backed up after a lengthy scan of Andrew's face and body language, convinced but certainly not placated.

“Your playing is sloppy. Your tempo's all over the place. You think this is good enough?”

“No,” Andrew shook the sweat out of his hair again.

“Then don't waste my fucking time,” Fletcher scolded just below a yell. He raised his hand up again. “Pick your goddamn sticks up, we're going again.” He counted the measure out with his hand and Andrew's body reanimated, arms a damn near blur and the sound a roll of thunder. They always went on until Andrew felt like he was about to pass out, but just as he started getting the spots in his vision Fletcher cued him to stop.

“That's a wrap for tonight. Keep working on 123 to 128. It's supposed to be syncopated and you're doing it on the beat. It sounds like shit, kid.”

Just as Fletcher had turned his back, Andrew called to him. “Sir.” Once Fletcher faced him Andrew started regretting it. “I'm, uh. You know that since you banned me from, uh.” Once he spotted the annoyed furrow of Fletcher's brows his tongue felt like a thick, heavy weight in his mouth.

“Am I listening to a broken record? Get to the point, Andrew.”

“I'm frustrated,” Andrew admitted a little more loudly than he would have liked. “I'm having trouble focusing.”

“Ah,” The corners of Fletcher's mouth perked up. “If you want permission for something, you need to ask me properly.”

Already red-faced and burning, Andrew could feel the heat stir in his stomach. Did Sean Casey have to deal with this shit, or was Andrew just special because he decided not to learn how to tie a noose? 

He was going to hang his head low and ask for permission, but he knew Fletcher would have given him shit for it so he stared his mentor dead in the eye. Sure, the hairs on the back of his neck and arms were standing on end. Sure, his leg kicked anxiously and his hands trembled. He made the mistake of mentioning it to begin with, however. It was far too late to back out of it.

“Will you please let me masturbate?” Andrew had begged.

“Oh, you want to masturbate?” The way Fletcher condescendingly sing-songed the little jab caused Andrew's stomach to sink further. He waited for a meek nod from Andrew before his mouth exploded into a mocking grin. “Go ahead.”

He almost gave a hoot, but thought better of it. Now given permission, Andrew kept his eye on Fletcher waiting for the man to leave him be. Fletcher stood firmly in place however, with his eyes planted on the young man. Andrew stared back a little stupidly. Slow to the punch.

“I'm waiting,” Fletcher demanded.

“Wait, right now?”

Fletcher threw a hand up and raised his brows. “I thought you wanted to masturbate, but if you're just wasting my time-”

“No,” Andrew added a little desperately. “I do want to masturbate. Let me just, uh. I gotta get into it.” He wiped the remaining sweat from his hands onto his pants and shot Fletcher an exasperated look. “Is this the only way you'll let me?”

“I'm feeling a little generous today. I'll give you a choice,” Fletcher chimed. “You can either do it right now, or you can show up to practice a little early on Saturday and I'll have you do it right on stage. Hopefully no one else decides to come in early, for your sake.”

Andrew bit back a complaint. He was proud of that much, but he just wished he could shed the despair from his face. “Now is fine,” he agreed reluctantly. He took a long breath and popped the button on his jeans. He slowly tugged the zipper down and half-hoped he would just get in the mood thinking about jacking off. With Fletcher's eyes on him his anxiety was cranked way up. He stayed soft as anything. He shifted his gaze to the floor and started groping himself through his boxers.

“Look at me,” Fletcher commanded calmly. “You wanted this, I'm giving it to you. But you're gonna have to play by my rules.”

When Andrew locked eyes with Fletcher the satisfied grin on his mentor's face filled him with immense dread. As much as he palmed himself, the dread and humiliation overwhelmed any pleasure he attempted to give himself. He was afraid to admit his trouble, both in fear of his manhood being insulted and of Fletcher deciding the whole thing was a waste of time and walking away without allowing Andrew release.

Of course Fletcher caught on. He chuckled a bit and took a step closer. “Having a little trouble there?”

Andrew nodded shamefully. He kept his eyes on Fletcher as the older man sauntered toward him.

“Focus on the wall over there,” Fletcher instructed as he stepped behind Andrew. He leaned a little bit, bringing his voice just above a whisper. He began speaking into Andrew's ear. “You're doing a good job, Neiman. Look at you go.”

A spark set off in the pit of Andrew's stomach. He felt a pulse in his cock at the encouragement fed into his ear. Fletcher's deep, rich tone. The tickle of breath on the side of his face. He hardened as the praise continued.

“You're going to be the best one day, all because of me. Do you know how proud I am of you?” As sarcastic as it sounded, it spoke to everything Andrew needed to hear. “You're hard enough,” Fletcher noted. “Take it out.”

Andrew gulped a little, but stuck a hand in his pants and pushed his dick through the peep-hole of his boxers. It was dry, a little uncomfortable, but he didn't dare take initiative without instruction.

“Spit into your hand.” Andrew did as he was told, spitting into his palm and slathering it over the head of his cock. He spit a little more and coated the shaft. “Very good, Andrew. I'm the one giving you what you need right now, remember that. Does it feel good, Andrew?”

A humiliated whine sounded at the back of Andrew's throat. The boy couldn't even be left in charge of his own needs. He couldn't even control his own arousal. Every single pulse and thrill flared contingent on Fletcher's soft talk.

“Does it feel good, Andrew?” Fletcher repeated a little more stiffly.

“Yes,” Andrew groaned.

“What do you say to someone who does something nice for you, Andrew?”

“Thank you.” He heaved, sucked in a breath so deep his chest burned as hot as his cheeks. After nearly two months of not coming, the anticipation of the building orgasm easily trumped his shame.

“You're going to come for me. You're going to let this whole building know that you're sitting at your drum set jerking your hard little cock to a man old enough to be your grandfather, aren't you?”

It was humiliating. There was no question about that. But Fletcher knew exactly what to say to get Andrew shouting out swears as he drained his balls all over a snare drum. A “ping” sounded when one spurt shot up and hit the cymbal. Squirt after squirt, all over his kit, his lap, his jeans, smudging onto his shirt and over his fingers in a shameful mess. Two months of celibacy, and the first orgasm belonged to Fletcher instead of Andrew being able to enjoy it for himself.

After he came, Fletcher left without so much as a goodbye. Andrew was left alone to scrub the semen off of his gear.


	2. The world is mine, not ours. I just fit you into it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nosso Mundo" is just a title I made up, though I'm sure there are actual songs with the same title. It just sounds like exactly what a Brazilian composer would name a big-band jazz song.

The idea was to deter Andrew from ever masturbating again, bringing the boy to such a state of humiliation that the very idea haunted him. And it worked. For a few weeks, at least. Andrew remained obedient and studious, perhaps a little more meek than before the incident. Andrew had realized the point of it all, and there was nothing he wished he could do more than forget about it. He was able to stave the urge off for a few days before it came back to him. A few more days after that and he'd be practicing alone at his drum set, getting rock hard if his thoughts managed to wander back to the weeks behind him.

It was only a matter of time before Andrew got hard during a practice session. He eyed Fletcher, tuned in on the deep and demanding voice and imagined the man standing behind him with instructions on how to fondle himself. Of all the days he could have succumbed to the thoughts, it was the day he chose to wear basketball shorts. The kick drum did a good enough job covering him, but they had barely started the session and Andrew was already redder than he had any reason to be.

Fletcher quirked a brow at Andrew. “You sick?”

“Just hot in here,” Andrew lied.

Folded arms, a grimace and eyes that narrowed but kept a tight focus on Andrew. “What's keeping you from turning on the AC? You'd rather pass out than practice, is that right?”

“No, that's not it at all,” Andrew insisted. “It's the electricity bill, I'm struggling this month.”

He flipped his palm up and shrugged. “I'll reimburse you. Time is scarcer than money. Get up and turn it on.”

Andrew gaped a bit, jaw slack and eyes panicked and wide. “I can't.”

Fletcher paused and tilted his head. “You can't? You better be shackled to the damn floor if you can't get up to turn on the air conditioning. Get the fuck up, Neiman.”

He sighed audibly, a stupid move if he ever saw one but he couldn't hold it back. Before he could even get shit for it he raised both hands in front of his face in defense and starting speaking. “I was lying about it being hot in here.”

“Oh man, don't tell me,” Fletcher snorted. “Stand up, kid.” He started bringing his hand up to cue Andrew to rise. He was outright chuckling when the boy stood and his erection was clearly outlined in his basketball shorts. “Fuck's sake, what do you think this is? I'm not your fucking girlfriend, Neiman. What in the fuck is making you hard and what makes you think you can lie to me about it?”

“I don't know,” Andrew nearly stammered. He cleared his throat and repeated a more assured, “I don't know.”

“I think you do know.” Fletcher's mouth was spread into a wide grin. “You a faggot, Neiman? You thinking about me standing over you like I did the other week and jerking off your sorry dick? You want to call me daddy while I pound your eager little ass? I always knew you were a submissive little fuck.”

Andrew couldn't do it. He couldn't bring himself to look at Fletcher. He kept rubbing his face, keeping it buried in his hand while Fletcher continued to berate him.

“I know you have trouble getting shit through your dense fucking skull, but in case you haven't realized, all of this work we've been doing hasn't been foreplay for your fantasies. I'm trying to put a show on and here you are thinking more about sucking cock than doing the only thing I require from you. It's un-fucking-believable.” Fletcher laughed a little more liberally. “You're deliberately wasting my time, considering all I do for you. I ask for nothing, absolutely nothing in return and this is what I get?”

“I'm sorry.” Andrew murmured, head hung low.

“Sorry, huh?” Fletcher started circling the drum set, teeth bared in something more like a growl than a grin. “Is your compliance too much to ask for, Neiman or do I have to fuck you like the little bitch you are to get it? For all I've done for you, you should be sucking my cock.”

Without even thinking, Andrew suddenly added, “If that's what you want.”

“Excuse me?” Fletcher stopped in his tracks.

“If you want me to suck your cock, I'll do it.” He felt like he was shrinking as he said it. Even if he was taller than Fletcher, his posture didn't reflect it. He tried curling into himself as best as he could while standing, but what was said was said and he dreadfully awaited the response.

Andrew was slightly relieved when Fletcher had deflated with a slow exhale. He seated himself on Andrew's futon, one of the very few instances he chose to actually sit down instead of lean against Andrew's wall like some kind of vigilant gargoyle.

A moment of quiet passed. “Alright,” Fletcher said with a smack of his lips. He scooted up on the futon, spread his thighs and started undoing his belt. “Get on your knees, Neiman. Let's see you start to pull your weight.”

A dream. A nightmare. Either way Andrew hadn't planned to protest. He obediently sunk to his knees in front of his instructor. Fletcher was not nearly as shy as Andrew had been. He already was pulling his length out of the waistband of his briefs and stroking himself in front of the boy. “Better hope for your sake that you're good at this.”

Andrew kept his eye on his mentor's growing prick, the tool growing more daunting and captivating as the man continued to stroke himself. Fletcher had said a command that Andrew hadn't quite paid mind to. He was slapped in the cheek by Fletcher's half-hard cock. Startled by the sudden slap, his gaze found Fletcher's.

“Open up. You know I hate repeating myself.”

Open up - this was really happening. Andrew cautiously opened his mouth. Fletcher immediately stuffed the head between Andrew's lips. “Get sucking, fairy. Pretend I'm your daddy if it helps.”

He could feel Fletcher's erection stiffen in his mouth. He half-expected a sour taste and rough texture, but there was the taste of skin's saltiness and the slick feeling of the smooth shaft passing through his lips. He utilized a little bit of guess work in trying to please Fletcher. He started lapping the head with the flat, broad part of his tongue while gently sucking the cock further into his mouth. For half a minute Fletcher's hand buried itself in his hair and stroked his scalp. The touch was so tender that Andrew would have mistaken it for affection if the older man had not used it as leverage soon after by hooking into strands of hair and thrusting down the boy's throat.

“You're going to want to gag. I don't think I have to tell you not to puke on me.” His other hand came up and held Andrew's head tightly in place before fucking the kid's mouth and throat. Andrew slobbered and gurgled all over the cock as it plunged deep into the back of his throat. After a minute of this Fletcher let up on the grip and allowed Andrew to take over again.

Any wait for instruction went out with Andrew's dignity. It wasn't like he had anything to lose. He was already on the floor of his apartment giving a blowjob to the same man who made him hate himself. He'd show initiative, and fuck if Fletcher had anything to say about it. So he decided to wrap a hand around the shaft and pump while sucking down on the head. He grazed the head with his teeth and had to fight a smile when the older man's body had tensed. He received a sharp tug on his hair in warning.

“You're not fucking cute, Neiman. You do that again and you get a punch in the face next time.” 

Andrew behaved after the warning, compliantly sucking until Fletcher came right into his mouth without any indication. He thrust a few more times in Andrew's mouth, body going rigid and breath becoming arrhythmic until he was spent.

While Andrew's eyes were watery and wide from giving the rough blowjob, Fletcher's eyes were expectantly focused. The kid swallowed the semen down audibly and watched Fletcher stuff himself back into his pants. After everything Andrew was still aching, leaking so much precum that the front of his shorts were stained.

“Alright, get back on the kit,” Fletcher ordered with a clap.

“But-”

“You wasted enough of my time today, Neiman.”

Still on his knees, Andrew clasped his hands together. “Please, I can't take this.”

“A lesson in discipline. It's just what you need you horny little fuck.”

Andrew's hands shot up to his head. He started pulling on his hair and groaning pitifully. “You're punishing me!”

“On the kit,” Fletcher repeated more slowly, enunciating “kit” for emphasis. He stared as Andrew essentially dragged himself across the room and back onto the stool. “Don't fuck it up, and maybe I'll do something nice for you. “Nosso Mundo, pick up to 54. I'll give you a bar.” 

5/4 meter, one Andrew had become more accustomed to under Fletcher's tutelage, but the music beside him looked daunting and difficult. He closed his eyes for a moment, listened intently to a measure of clapping and prepared himself at the final two claps, launching into a staccato rhythm of Latin-inspired music.

Fletcher bobbed his head, fingers making a “come hither” motion that pushed for Andrew to play louder. Andrew's face strained and contorted to fight for focus on the piece, his arousal rubbing against his thigh at each punch of the kick drum. He missed two hits and Fletcher immediately closed his hand into a fist at the mistake.

It was at that moment that Andrew knew the rest of the session would continue in that way. Fletcher, whose energy was taken down a notch after the blowjob, gave comparatively mild criticism. At Andrew's consistent failures, his anger only flared to listless grimaces. Andrew couldn't even look to Fletcher's rage to awaken his mind from his body's haze of desire. 

Two hours in of attempting Nosso Mundo and the session was over. Andrew sat with mouth gaped, sucking air into his lungs while Fletcher just tutted and shook his head.

“Looks like discipline is exactly what you need to work on,” Fletcher suggested coldly. “When I come back on Wednesday you better be able to work past these stupid mistakes. You've got no excuses now that you know exactly what I'm asking for.” As he made his way out, he stopped right at the door. “Oh, and Andrew. If I find out you've been touching yourself, I will pull you from the next show.” There was no mocking grin or chuckle. Fletcher's face was hard and serious.

Andrew watched Fletcher walk out, protest on his lips but the kid new better than that.


	3. I'll take and take and take. Give me everything you are, and one day you'll be a star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the kind words. This was extremely fun to write.

Andrew and Jim usually favored staring at each other quietly on their family lunch outings. They'd exchange a few updates, sure. Andrew would mention the progress on a piece or the date of the next show. Jim recounted any of the pressing scandals with staff or student at Pennington High. But mostly there would be long stretches of silence between the two as if one waited for the other to speak first.

“Is he treating you well?” Jim's voice dragged at the beginning of the question.

The question caused Andrew's brows to shoot way up. He took a moment, rubbed his lips together and sat up a little in his seat. He shot his father a strained half-grin. “I've made a lot of progress drumming.”

Jim shook his head. “That's not what I asked you.”

Andrew sighed, eyes darting around as if he expected Fletcher to be eavesdropping. “What difference does it make? I've made my choice.”

“I know, Andrew,” Jim snapped. He breathed and repeated, “I know”. He paused after the outburst. He swallowed a big gulp of coffee. “I need to know.”

Andrew's mouth tightened. “I don't think you really want to know.”

“You're right,” Jim nodded slowly. He set the coffee down and clasped his hands together on the table. “I don't want to know, but I should.”

“It's the same shit,” Andrew stated frankly. “He berates me, pushes me until I'm bleeding, makes me feel like less of a person. Nothing has changed, but I'm fine with all of it.” The boy shrugged a little bit. “I don't know why you expected anything different.”

“Don't you have any dignity?” Jim cut in. The question was not asked with malice, but concern. “The way he treats you is disgusting. I can't even begin to understand why you allow him to treat you this way, Andrew.”

“Of course you don't understand,” Andrew laughed. “I was asleep for nineteen years. He finally woke me up.”

“Andrew,” Jim pleaded. “You don't know what you're saying.”

Andrew's stare became cold. “You are the last person I'll let patronize me. I know exactly what I'm saying. Where would I be right now if I hadn't met him? I'd be stuck with you telling me it's alright to give up. You'd be trying to convince me that letting life shit all over me is normal and that there's nothing I can do to fight back. You'd be backing up every half-assed decision I'd make.”

Jim shook his head rapidly. “All I've ever tried to do was protect you. I tried to protect you from him and I've tried to keep the worst of the world away from you, Andrew. I do everything I do because I love you.”

Unable to stop himself, Andrew responded, “Well, I love him.” For a second he felt his stomach drop, but he steeled himself and stared his father dead-on.

Jim opened his mouth and then promptly closed it. He slouched, took a long sip of coffee. He kept his mouth hidden behind the cup, but Andrew could see the twitch in his father's eyes before the man answered, “I will always love you, Andrew. Nothing's gonna change that.”

The nod Andrew gave was cautious, but grateful. They moved on from that course of conversation. Jim, defeated and disappointed spoke quietly. Andrew decided to end their gathering early by slapping a twenty on the table to cover his portion. He said a quick farewell to his father and walked out. There wasn't much time left until his next practice with Fletcher.

It was discipline Fletcher wanted, it was discipline Fletcher got. After the terrible practice session from the previous week, Andrew had focused on diffusing the arousal every time his mind started to wander to or body started to nag him for attention. The memory of sucking off Fletcher was the most difficult to stave off.

As terrifying as the situation had been, there was still the sense of wonder that accompanied such a surreal turn of events. There was Fletcher's intimidatingly thick prick shoved down his throat until it was rubbed raw and the gag reflex forced Andrew into tears. There was the brief feeling of having his head patted and scalp massaged, like the action meant more to Fletcher than he led on. There were the eyes, intense and thoughtful boring right into Andrew's soul.

Andrew wanted to do it all again, but the following practice session hadn't started off on the same foot that the previous one had. Andrew fought for control of his body, suppressing his arousal and fighting erections. The frustration was constructive. He'd push out any of that excitement into his arms to play harder and faster than he was able to.

Discipline, control, just another lesson to be learned. Fletcher was a great instructor, as questionable as his methods were. More than just learning to master new abilities, Andrew was coming to understand what else set “Andrew Neiman” apart from “Sean Casey”. Sean Casey was able to find escape in death, but Andrew knew his mediocrity and failures would follow him down to hell if he followed the same path of the student before him. Risking death wasn't an option. Andrew would neither accept nor settle for anything less than complete mastery of every aspect in his life.

“Andrew Neiman” wasn't just a spark of life. “Andrew Neiman” was rhythm itself. “Andrew Neiman” was willpower. “Andrew Neiman” was progress and “Terence Fletcher” was the world's most powerful catalyst. Sean Casey disintegrated in the process, but Andrew had the right combination for Fletcher and together they made the best results.

Andrew had his sticks up and ready as Fletcher started him off with the count. They made it through an entire song, Fletcher's hand bouncing around in the air as he paced the room. No interruptions from start to finish.

The boy nearly expected praise when his mentor turned to him. Instead, Fletcher simply said, “You missed the decrescendo on 305. On 356 you were a little more piano than pianissimo. If we had been with the whole band, it would have come off far too loud for that measure.” That was as close to praise as anything Andrew would get.

The second song moved along much in the same way, except for minor tempo tweaks causing them to start over a couple of times. They managed to get that one hammered out in just a little over a half hour. Andrew started getting a little hopeful, but more than anything the confidence began flaring inside him.

“If we finish the next one early today, can I masturbate?” Andrew suggested. 

“Straight to the point, huh?” Fletcher flipped to the next chart. “Fine.” The man had smiled at him, Andrew smiled back.

It was a fair bit more difficult staving desire off knowing he was so close to the goal in mind, but Andrew managed. The piece they were worked on hurt to play, really digging into the scabs on his hands. Pain was good. It kept him tied to reality, it kept him from fantasizing. It kept him from crawling over his drum set with a melodramatic confession of just how deep his desire ran.

Another set of dynamic-related critiques, all critiques best left implemented in the group rehearsal where they were given more context. Practice was over and done with, but they still had another hour on the clock. Andrew let himself explore the memories more intimately. He hardened in his jeans before Fletcher gave him permission to set his cock free.

“Easier for you, isn't it? Did you really like sucking me off that much?”

Andrew ran his tongue over his dry lips and nodded rapidly.

This time Fletcher faced Andrew dead on, staring the kid down. “I'll make you my girlfriend, Neiman. Would you like that?”

The young man sat with spread legs on the stool. “Yes.” His gaze stayed on Fletcher's, waiting for the word.

“Take out your dick. Start stroking.”

Fletcher didn't have to tell him twice. They kept their gazes locked even as Andrew made himself indecent.

This was just another performance, another one of Fletcher's achievements in conducting, another opportunity to take a malleable aspect of young Andrew's life and mend it to suit their careers. Fletcher was either the most selfish man in the world, or one of the most selfless and it was just impossible to distinguish the two. No matter the case, Andrew couldn't wipe the smirk off his face if he tried.

“Tell me, Andrew.” Fletcher's voice hummed low and husky. “What's on your mind right now?”

Legs spread, jeans around his ankles, cock in hand. His other hand was placed on the back of the stool to support himself so he wouldn't fall comically back His eyelids flickered. What was on his mind was grabbing Fletcher and pulling the man into a rough kiss.

“I want you to touch me,” Andrew mumbled, hesitant to admit wanting a kiss.

Fletcher cupped a hand around his ear and leaned in. “Couldn't quite catch that. A little louder, now.”

A clear speaking volume, Andrew repeated his desire. When Fletcher leaned in a little closer and asked him to say it louder he caught onto Fletcher's annoying little game and had went straight into barking it out as loudly as he could.

“Wow. You can't even please yourself,” Fletcher teased. “I have to do everything for you.”

Andrew nodded feverishly. He could get hung up over being called incompetent later. Now Fletcher was walking around the kit and standing behind the young man. “I can't do it right,” Andrew whined, throwing his head back and jacking himself off faster. “I need you to to do it for me.”

“That's why I'm here.” Grabbing Andrew by the hair, he pulled the boy back into his chest. He raked fingers through the thick hair. “Take your hands off yourself and don't move.” The voice remained serious and frightening as ever, but Andrew wasn't scared.

The boy's arms went slack at his sides. He saw Fletcher's hand from his periphery, coming slowly into view. Large fingers wrapped the head of his prick, the muscles in the thick forearm visibly contracting with every pump and movement. Something about it was so dream-like, leaving Andrew in a surreal haze. He watched with detached fascination, but his desire was present and assured him this was all real.

The back of his head rested against Fletcher's broad chest. It felt softer than it looked. No trace of cologne, but there was the heady scent of after shave and much subtler hint of coffee. He closed his eyes and lost himself in feeling and scent.

The palm that handled him was smooth, but the pads of the fingers were calloused and rough. Fletcher pulled a hand back and spit into the palm before continuing with the handjob. Andrew bucked slightly into the hand until the pleasure mounted into an orgasm. His seed bubbled out and spilled over Fletcher's hand.

Fletcher wrapped his hand tightly around the head and gave the boy a few more jerks, sending Andrew shaking and breathing loudly. He pulled the hand off when Andrew started to soften and glanced at the cum on his hand. “Get me a towel.”

Andrew nodded and jolted to his feet, pulling his pants up as he went and grabbed a hand towel from the bathroom. He handed it over to Fletcher, who wiped his hands and tossed the towel to the floor.

Andrew watched him get ready to leave, but he stopped the man. “Wait.”

Fletcher sighed and turned around to face Andrew. “What is it now?”

“What about you?”

Fletcher raised his brow. “What about me?” He mocked.

His face felt hot, but the fire in his stomach urged him on. He smiled wide. “When do I get to return the favor?”

Surprised, Fletcher's head lifted to stare directly at Andrew. “Since when are you so straightforward? Usually I've gotta play the most complicated fucking game of charades to find out what it is you want from me.”

“I know what I want this time,” Andrew answered. He stepped toward Fletcher. “I want everything you have to give me.” He placed his hands on Fletcher's shoulders and squeezed. “I want to give you everything I have.” He didn't give Fletcher an opportunity to respond. He leaned in, pressed his mouth to Fletcher's and was pleasantly surprised when he wasn't immediately slapped upside the head. When he pulled back, Fletcher looked amused.

“Not going to do with a twin bed, Andrew. We're two grown men,” Fletcher began. He pulled Andrew's hands off of him and stepped back.

“Come the fuck on,” Andrew whined, going back in to touch Fletcher's shoulders. The older man put a hand up and stopped him.

“Try letting me finish, dipshit,” Fletcher scolded mildly, mirthful grin still on his face. “If you want to get fucked so badly, I've got the bed for it.”

“Right now?” Andrew pleaded more than he asked.

“Sure,” Fletcher agreed. “Oh, and Andrew,” he added sweetly.

Andrew was riding high, stupid grin sitting on his cheeks. “What is it?”

Fletcher slapped Andrew upside the back of the head with the heel of his palm. “You talk to me like that again, and I'm going in dry.” He pulled Andrew into a headlock and messed the boy's hair up. “Making you my girlfriend doesn't give you any power over me, you got that?”

“Of course, sir,” Andrew gave obediently. Andrew was still smiling like an idiot when Fletcher released him. The kid wasn't sure if he had any dignity left in him, but he sure didn't give a fuck anymore.


End file.
